


A Touch Like Sunlight

by goodomensblog (just_quintessentially_me), just_quintessentially_me



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Action, Aziraphale Saves Crowley, Aziraphale loves Crowley, BAMF Aziraphale, BAMF Crowley, Crowley loves Aziraphale, Crowley saves Aziraphale, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Love, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Protectiveness, Rescue, Romance, Soft Kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-03 04:23:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19456282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_quintessentially_me/pseuds/goodomensblog, https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_quintessentially_me/pseuds/just_quintessentially_me
Summary: "After the apoca-wasn’t, time carries on - as time does. Days bleed into months, and months into years.And through it all, Heaven and Hell remain unnervingly silent.Crowley and Aziraphale sometimes catch sight of them - angels more often than demons. Not because the demons are any better at sneaking about; there are simply less of them sneaking (between the two, Heaven’s always been the more vengeful). But their watchers - whether angel or demon - don’t go so far as to speak. Rather, they observe - usually from some distance, dark gazes following. Watching."Ch.1 A Touch Like Sunlight: Crowley accidentally threatens an Archangel.Ch. 2 A Love Like Moonlight: When Aziraphale is threatened by angels who seek justice for Aziraphale's crimes against Heaven, Crowley comes up with a plan to keep him safe from harm.





	1. A Touch Like Sunlight

“Perhaps Gabriel had a point,” Aziraphale mutters, “about the gut, at least.”

Aziraphale’s standing in front of a mirror when he says it, fingers meticulously twisting gleaming buttons into fabric.

Crowley thinks he must have misheard. 

“Sorry - _he what?_ ”

Glancing up, Aziraphale catches sight of Crowley in the mirror.

“Crowley! You’re early,” the angel says, looking pleased, and does up the remaining buttons with an eager flourish. “I’m excited to try this new restaurant. It’s in a conservatory, yes? What a novel idea!”

“M’yeah - Clos Maggiore - got a nice big garden,” Crowley answers, distracted. “But what was that you were saying? About…Gabriel.” Crowley grimaces, his lips curling around the name.

“Oh it was nothing, dear.” When Aziraphale waves, it is dismissive. “It’s just - archangels. You know how they can be.”

Turning away from the mirror, Aziraphale’s hands flit about his front, and Crowley watches him give the bottom of his vest a little tug.

“A tad bit preoccupied with perfection, is all,” Aziraphale mutters, and reaches for his coat.

“Perfection?” Crowley stares after Aziraphale, feeling as though he’s somehow missed the critical point which connects the two points of conversation “And what’s that got to do with you and guts?”

Aziraphale stops, closing his eyes. 

“ _My_ gut, Crowley. It’s-” he says, touching a hand to his stomach. “Well it’s not. You know, _perfect_.” 

The angel’s lips twist up in a thin, sad mimicry of a smile.

“ _What?_ ” Crowley’s glasses have slipped a bit down his nose, and he stares at the angel, flabbergasted.

“Oh for - _Gabriel told me to lose weight, alright?_ ”

Crowley blinks. 

The demon Crowley, if you’ll believe it, once owned a laptop. A very nice one, at that. _(How else was he supposed to start hour long debates via the youtube comment section?)_ He’d spilled a latte on said laptop, and before he could miracle the hot liquid away, the poor computer had buzzed once before the screen flickered, flashed blue, and then went permanently dark.

As he stands in the angel’s bookshop, trying vainly to process the words which have just spilled out of the angel’s mouth, Crowley feels suddenly quite a lot like a water - er, latte-logged laptop. 

“It was before the apocalypse - or, I suppose, the not-apocalypse. So it’s in the past, of course. And I don’t really think about it - well, _not really._ But I do wonder if my, er, shape is - oh, it doesn’t matter-” Aziraphale frets, distractedly adjusting his coat.

By now, Crowley has finally managed to process the content of the angel’s declaration - and the _knowledge_ of what Gabriel had said, of the _words_ the archangel had undoubtedly cruelly wielded against his angel - 

_It makes the demon burn._

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says.

He doesn’t mean for it to come out like it does - quiet and dangerous; the whispered promise a dagger makes when pulled loose of its sheath.

The angel goes still. Blue eyes - glowing with the untapped holy aura which waits, untouched within his deceptively human shell - are unnaturally bright in the dim shop.

“…Crowley?” 

Distracted with the rage coiling like a serpent in his gut, Crowley does not have the presence of mind to dissect the angel’s reaction. If he did, he might have grasped the reason for the angel’s hesitation.

The reason is this: 

In six thousand years, Crowley had rarely used his voice to imply anything really and truly dangerous. And Crowley had _certainly_ never said Aziraphale’s name in such a tone. Sure - perhaps occasionally in exasperation. But not like this. Never like this.

Much later, when Crowley is calm, he will reflect on the exchange - and with profound relief, realize that of the complicated set of emotions which crossed the angel’s face, not a single one of them was fear.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley hisses, “You’re telling me that _Gabriel_ , that-,” and he rocks back on his feet, his hand clenching at his side. “-that bastard, _said that? To you._ ”

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to blink. “If you recall, he also planned to have me killed,” the angel says spreading his hands. “Crowley, I don’t understand why you’re fixating on-”

“No you see, that - _that_ ,” Crowley interrupts, lifting a shaking finger, “that’s precisely the _fucking point_.” 

And then he’s moving, leather shoes pacing smartly over the shop’s scuffed floor.

Because it _is_ the point, Crowley thinks, dragging a hand through his hair. 

Gabriel tried to kill Aziraphale.

Gabriel tried to _kill Aziraphale_.

Aziraphale - who delights in simple magic tricks, in Sunday brunches, in feeding the ducks, and dancing the Gavotte; who looks forward to chatting with their new human friends when they call up every few weeks, just to catch up.

Aziraphale, who Gabriel looked at and saw frivolity, uselessness, emotion and weakness, all wrapped in an _imperfect body_.

Gabriel had _dared_ look upon Aziraphale and had the gall, the _audacity_ to miss everything that mattered.

Gabriel had never understood Aziraphale. So he’d hurt, demeaned, and belittled him. And when Aziraphale remained, still outside of his grasp - too far outside of his influence, Gabriel had resorted to destruction.

 _And does a being like that, ever truly stop seeking control?_ Crowley can’t help the thought, which slithers in, slipping around the edges of his rage.

His and Aziraphale’s body-swapping stunt bought them time, Crowley knows.

But eternity rewards the patient.

And Heaven had played the long game before. 

_Will Gabriel ever truly leave Aziraphale alone?_

It’s a sobering thought. One that has Crowley’s molten rage cooling into something hard, sharp, and pointed.

Crowley’s steps slow - then stop. 

“Crowley-” Aziraphale tries, but Crowley isn’t listening.

One of the bookshop’s upper windows is slightly ajar, and a stream of pale sunlight pours into the shop, lighting a narrow path to the floor. 

Awash in light, Crowley looks up, _thinking_.

He’s never killed before. Not like _that_ anyway.

But for _Aziraphale’s_ sake - for his _safety_ …

“Will I have to _kill_ Gabriel?” Crowley muses, blinking up at the light.

The moment the words leave his mouth, the room surges with a white, humming energy - and then Aziraphale is on him, shoving Crowley back.

Crowley doesn’t lift a hand - even as he’s thrust against the nearest shelf. 

Hard spines dig into his back as he stares into Aziraphale’s clear blue eyes. Within them, holy light churns, waiting to be called forth.

Aziraphale’s wings have manifested, and they flare out as the angel presses a staying hand against the demon. Fingers splayed across Crowley’s chest, Aziraphale half turns, angling his body to face the open shop. His free hand is raised, palm open and ready. And as the heavy silence sinks over them, Aziraphale stills, tensing.

Crowley doesn’t need to breathe, but sometimes he forgets - and so after a minute has passed, the demon draws in a slow, careful breath.

“Angel,” Crowley says, brushing a hand over the fingers so effortlessly pressing him into the shelf. 

And then those over-bright eyes are on Crowley, and he is not afraid. Not when Aziraphale blinks and the air hums. Not when Aziraphale’s wings shudder and stretch, and Aziraphale presses into him. 

The wings lift and fold, and Crowley is ensconced in a shelter of white.

Aziraphale’s breath is soft and shuddering, and the fingers digging into Crowley’s chest tremble as the angel leans into him. “We’re lucky. He wasn’t listening - or if he was, he didn’t hear. Crowley, _what were you thinking?_ Including an archangels _name_ in a statement like that?”

It was a dangerous mistake - Crowley knows. One he won’t make again.

“ _Honestly_ Crowley, all this over one _stupid_ comment?” 

Crowley shakes his head, suddenly adamant that Aziraphale understand. 

“No. _No_. Gab- _he_ doesn’t value you, angel. Doesn’t value your person. Your life,” he says, swallowing. “And hearing what he’s said to you, angel. Well okay, yeah, _it did piss me off_ \- but it made me realize. It’s personal for him,” Crowley says, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand. “He wasn’t concerned with maintaining order - he wanted to kill _you_ , angel. _You._ ”

“Yes, Crowley. I know.”

The admission is soft and certain, and it is painful - _agonizing_ to hear his angel admit in that gentle voice that he knows the angels he’s worked with for centuries were eager to be rid of him.

Groaning, Crowley reaches for Aziraphale. His hands brush the angel’s face, caressing his cheeks, over his ears, and then Crowley’s fingers are weaving through, tangling in his hair. 

Dragging the angel closer still, he leans into him, pressing their foreheads together. 

“They’ve _never_ deserved you, angel.”

Aziraphale shudders and there’s a hitch in his voice. “ _Crowley_.”

Crowley shakes his head, nose brushing Aziraphale’s. “No. _Fuck them_. You’re perfect. From your toes to your stomach-” and here he reaches down, brushing a reverent touch over the angel’s soft belly. 

He feels Aziraphale shiver beneath him as his touch traces up, over his chest, then along the curve of the angel’s neck. 

“-to your face, your head-” and Crowley cradles Aziraphale’s face, caressing his cheeks with his thumbs, “and everything within. Your wants, your selflessness, your _selfishness_ , and even your love of _stupid_ fake magic. _It’s perfect_. Every _damn_ bit of it,” he hisses, defiant. 

The wings around them are trembling, and Aziraphale, pressing his lips against Crowley’s cheek, whispers. “Crowley, you’re-”

“Don’t say I’m lying, angel. And _yeah sure_ , demons lie and whatever. But I’ve never lied to you.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley closes his eyes at the touch of another soft kiss against his skin. “I know that.” Another kiss. 

And then, he starts again, “Crowley, you’re so good to me.” Another kiss, followed by a soft breath and then - “No that’s - what I mean is - Crowley, you are so _good_.” Aziraphale kisses him again, this time at the corner of his lips and says, “Don’t be angry.”

Crowley winces - not out of anger - but because his insides feel soft and fluttery and warm - and Aziraphale’s touch is gentle - nearly unbearably so. So much that Crowley distantly wonders if he might die from it.

“M’not,” he manages.

Aziraphale leans back to look him fully in the face.

“You’re not,” he marvels.

 _How can he be?_ If Aziraphale is a terrible angel, then Crowley is a worse demon. 

He’s chosen his side now. No use defending old titles.

The thought of sides, however, does make some of the warmth bleed from him because - “I think we need a plan, Aziraphale - to deal with Gabr - you know, _him_. Or any of the others who might decide to cause us trouble.”

Aziraphale is watching him, his lips pressed in a concerned line. “A plan?”

Crowley swallows and nods. “For if they come for us. We couldn’t take them in a fight. Not all at once. But if we _had to_ \- even just getting rid of Gabr - _him_ would give us some breathing room. You know the rest of them would back off.”

Frown lines etch the skin between Aziraphale’s brows.

“If we had to, we could split up. You could play decoy and lead the others away. Distract them long enough for me to face Gabriel. Against just him, I might be able to-”

Aziraphale’s wings snap back. The cold air of the shop rushes in - and Crowley winces at the light.

Aziraphale has him by the jacket, and the angel’s gaze is cold and blue and Crowley can’t look away. 

“ _You will **not**_.”

And it is more than a request. More than a demand. The air whines as the fabric of existence strains to reshape itself - to placate, to please -

“Angel,” Crowley whispers, wrapping his fingers around one of the angel’s hands. 

The air settles.

And then Aziraphale’s brows are lifting, his expression pained and breaking.

“Crowley, he would _destroy_ you.”

“I wouldn’t let him,” Crowley says, and believes it.

“Crowley, _please_ ,” Aziraphale says. 

And really, that’s all it takes.

“Alright, angel,” Crowley says, pulling him close, “Consider that plan scrapped.”

Aziraphale’s wings disappear, folding into another plane of existence as Aziraphale wraps around Cowley in a relieved embrace.

“We _surely_ have some time, right?” Aziraphale says against Crowley’s shoulder.

“Yeah. You’re probably right,” Crowley agrees, and savors the feeling of Aziraphale’s rigid figure softening, relaxing against him. “We have time,” Crowley says, and looking over Aziraphale’s shoulder, closes his eyes.

 _It’s not a lie_ , he tells himself. They might very well have time.

“And you won’t fight _him_? Not even to protect me.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, pleading.

It is at ten fifteen in the morning, on a beautiful Sunday in April that Crowley, after six thousand years, tells the angel his very first _real_ lie.

“No, angel. I won’t fight the archangel.”

“I’m serious,” Aziraphale says, stern.

“Me too, angel.”

Something in Aziraphale’s expression relaxes, and he smiles, small.

It doesn’t feel good - lying. Crowley never particularly liked lying, generally speaking. But here, now, it’s infinitely worse.

He tries to rationalize it - because he won’t, of course, fight the archangel unless he’s got a plan. And a good one, at that. Unless - _and here’s the heart of the lie_ \- Aziraphale is in danger. Crowley would fight an army of archangels if they threatened Aziraphale harm.

And his angel was a bastard for thinking he could guilt Crowley into promising otherwise - _perfect in every way, mind you_ \- but a bastard all the same.

And so Crowley leans back, cupping the angel’s face, and smiles. 

“So how about brunch? I wanted to take you to that new place, remember? With the garden.”

“Right! Brunch!” Aziraphale says, bouncing up on his toes - as if they hadn’t just been discussing the murder of archangels. “Do you think they have crepes?”

“Angel,” Crowley says, giving him a look. “I suggested it precisely _because_ they serve crepes.”

And then Aziraphale is grinning and it looks so bright and lovely on the angel’s face that Crowley decides they won’t talk about Heaven or Hell or bloody archangels - for the day. Or for weeks. Months. Years. Decades. Whatever it takes to keep that smile there, unobstructed. 

The archangel Gabriel _is_ a problem.

And his hatred of Aziraphale is dangerous, no doubt.

But Crowley will deal with it, in much the same way as he dealt with the other, albeit smaller dangers that cropped up throughout the past six thousand years.

He’ll just need to be more _clever_ this time, that’s all. 

“Shall we, angel?” he says, and holds out a hand.

“Please,” Aziraphale says, and takes his hand with a small, pleased grin.

Their fingers twist together, and when Crowley squeezes, Aziraphale’s fingers squeeze back. 

For now, all is well.

Someday, it might not be.

But, _well,_ he’ll come up with a plan - _something particularly clever,_ to deal with that.

For now, Crowley listens to Aziraphale chat as they walk - the angel is talking about Anathema, Newt, Madame Tracy, and Adam and their latest telephone conversations. Running his thumb across the back of Aziraphale’s hand, Crowley savors the touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 is in the works :)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr! 
> 
> [goodomensblog](https://goodomensblog.tumblr.com/)  
> or  
> [just-quintessentially-me](https://just-quintessentially-me.tumblr.com/) (main)


	2. A Love Like Moonlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: violence, blood and injuries

After the apoca-wasn’t, time carries on - as time does. Days bleed into months, and months into years.

And through it all, Heaven and Hell remain unnervingly silent.

Crowley and Aziraphale sometimes catch sight of them - angels more often than demons. Not because the demons are any better at sneaking about; there are simply less of them sneaking (between the two, Heaven’s always been the more vengeful). But their watchers - whether angel or demon - don’t go so far as to speak. Rather, they observe - usually from some distance, dark gazes following. Watching.

Crowley and Aziraphale try not to think about them overmuch. After all, the body-swap should have convinced their respective sides of the angel and demon’s invulnerability to the two most deadly weapons in Heaven and Hell’s arsenals.

“Maybe we’re forgiven,” Aziraphale muses as he lifts a spoonful of fudge drenched sundae to his lips. He doesn’t sound as though he believes it.

Crowley _definitely_ doesn’t believe it.

For a start, he’s a demon; Aziraphale’s about the only celestial being who seems interested in forgiving him _that_ deficiency.

And as for Aziraphale - well, the archangels hadn’t seemed all that keen on forgiving or forgetting Aziraphale’s indiscretions when they’d, with tight lips and dark looks, released a disguised Crowley after Hellfire had failed to burn him.

“I certainly don’t relish the thought of real confrontation with them,” Aziraphale says, shifting in the restaurant’s cushioned seat.

“Who’s them?”

“Oh, I meant Heaven. Though I suppose-”

Taking a sip of dark, steaming coffee, Crowley waves. “Nah. I’m not worried about Hell. It’ll take them a few centuries at least to get that ball rolling. Took ‘em so long to kick off the whole Antichrist shindig, I’d begun to think it they’d changed their minds.”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale muses, and a spoonful of sundae disappears.

“And as for Heaven - well, maybe it won’t come to that. You never know.”

“…perhaps,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can almost _see_ the angel’s willful optimism warring with his intimate knowledge of archangels’ particular breed of wrath.

Sighing, Aziraphale taps a finger along the spoon’s edge before setting it and the half-eaten sundae aside.

Crowley’s sharp gaze follows the abandoned sundae as it’s pushed across the table. Aziraphale has laced his fingers together, and is staring ponderously down at the bleached white tablecloth.

“I don’t…” Aziraphale starts, and Crowley leans in.

“…enjoy confrontation,” the angel finishes with a twist of his lips.

“Well that’s fine,” Crowley says, and shifts his hand so that their fingers are touching.

Aziraphale’s fingers twitch and his gaze flicks appreciatively up.

“But I’d fight,” Aziraphale says, and his hands slide across the table, knuckles bumping Crowley’s as he twists their fingers together. “If I had to. To protect us. The life we’ve made here.”

This, Crowley knows. It makes something in the depths of his very being burn; and it’s warm, flickering, and fragile.

The angel had, in the end, been willing to kill a _child_ to rid the world of the Antichrist after all. He’d been ready to accept that black mark on his soul - being - _whatever_ , to save Crowley, humanity, the world.

It was only Madame Tracy’s last second intervention which had spared him that.

Crowley regrets not taking up the gun on that rain soaked runway. Six thousand years spent rescuing Aziraphale from difficult choices - from sending a French executioner to his own beheading to bloodying his hands with the deaths of Nazi scum - and after all that he’d gone and asked Aziraphale to complete the darkest task of them all.

His angel won’t be put in that position again. Not if Crowley can help it.

“Don’t worry about all that, angel.”

“Well of _course_ I worry,” Aziraphale says, giving him an affronted look.

“You’ve got me,” Crowley says, because he _does_ , and Crowley likes to remind him of it.

His stiff posture softens. Squeezing Crowley’s hands, Aziraphale glances up. “I do. And you’ve got me. Always.”

Overcome, Crowley lifts Aziraphale’s hands, pressing his lips to soft knuckles. When Aziraphale sighs and smiles, Crowley feels alight, _effervescent_ , and disentangles a single hand to press the sundae back toward the angel.

“Go on then. Finish your ice cream.”

“Well. If you insist,” Aziraphale says, eyes flashing in quiet mirth, and picks up the spoon with a little twirl. Scooping a melting spoonful, he swallows it with a contented hum.

Chin perched on a fist, Crowley watches him, taking easy joy in the angel’s delight.

Nightingales stretch their wings and ready to fly south as soon as leaves fade from green to yellow - not knowing, nor particularly caring to understand the interminable feeling in their tiny fluttering hearts which commands them. In much the same way, Crowley doesn’t think overmuch about protecting Aziraphale from facing a choice like the one at Tadfield again. Nightingales fly south in the autumn, and Crowley will do near anything to keep Aziraphale from anguish.

If Gabriel - or any of the other archangels make a move against them, Aziraphale will not be forced to bear the burden of taking up arms against a fellow angel. Not if Crowley has anything to say about it.

Because he’s got a plan. A decently good one too, he likes to think.

They’re on their own now - isolated from both Heaven and Hell, but that doesn’t mean Crowley doesn’t occasionally keep in touch. He has a contact or two, under-the-table type connections, of course. But it’s enough for him to keep an ear to the ground with regard to what Hell is up to, and sometimes, by association - Heaven.

It’s how he hears, three days after his and Aziraphale’s lunch date, about the knife.

The London Natural History Museum is busy this time of year.

Crowley slips through the crowd, shoes squeaking on polished marble.

The lesser demon is nearby - Crowley can sense him. When Crowley finds him, it’s in the Rocks and Minerals wing, and he’s hunched, squinting down at a display.

“What have you got for me?” Crowley says, glancing around at the milling crowd.

“Did you know there’s islands of rocks that float?” Daeval says, pressing his spindly fingers over a black and white picture.

Sparing the demon a single, withering look, Crowley pulls him away from the display.

“ _You_ called _me_. What information do you have?”

The demon, a scrawny thing with bony shoulders and a head just slightly too large for its body, looks somewhat like a human child - at least on this plane. And as Crowley drags him away from the display, he whines.

“Oh for - you’re not actually a child!” Crowley hisses, dragging the demon outside.

Outside, Daeval recoils, squinting at the light.

“Spill. Now,” He says, stepping in, crowding the little bastard.

Spindly hands lift and the demon is snarling. “Give me a chance to get a word out!”

“I’m waiting.”

Flicking a rude gesture, the demon begins. “I hear that the angels are looking for something.”

“For what?”

“From what I hear, it’s a knife.”

“A knife?”

_What would an angel want with a knife?_

“Not just any knife. An _ancient_ one. Way, way back, an angel gave it to some poor sod. Apparently, the knife got a bit tainted, you see, with a touch of murderous intent. Then it slipped down to our end for a while, and was eventually lost.”

“And?”

“See, it’s an angelic blade that went a bit dark. It’s, uh, well they say it can kill both demons _and_ angels.”

Crowley stills. He doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t blink. His heartbeat silences so that he might better _think_.

“It can do _what._ ”

“Kill angels. Kill demons. Stab ‘em and-” he flings out his hands, making a dramatic _whooshing_ noise. “Gone. Permanent like.”

Crowley braces a hand against the closest wall. When his fingers tremble, he grinds them into the stucco until they still.

“This knife. Where is it?”

“Dunno. Just heard that some angels were looking for it. Asking around. Probably don’t want us demons getting our hands on it again, is my guess.”

“I don’t pay you to guess.”

“Don’t pay me much at all actually…”

“Yeah, just _shh-_ ” Crowley waves the demon silent. Pressing a fist to his lips, he paces in a tight circle.

 _It could be nothing_ , he thinks. Maybe the angel’s _are_ simply interested in keeping it out of Hell’s grasp. But he knows Heaven, and he knows the kind of angels which preside there. And they’re the type that won’t stand to leave things unfinished. Not after Aziraphale’s slight.

Divine justice is swift. And it is unyielding.

And there apparently exists a knife to do it’s bidding.

The angels believe Aziraphale is immune to Hellfire.

This knife would be the perfect solution.

“Have they found it?”

“Don’t know.”

The sky is cloudless, the sun is bright, and powerful archangels might have a knife capable of killing one of their own. Spitting a swear, Crowley closes his eyes. Fingers curling, he presses his hand over his face; his bruised knuckles press into the skin around his glasses.

Either they’ve found it - or they will soon.

Heaven is relentless in that way.

“Daeval. It’s time,” Crowley finally says. “See to the preparations. You have three days.”

“First of all, that’s a rush job. Are you gonna pay me-”

Snatching up the demon’s hand, Crowley squeezes. Power flows down his arm, tingling through his fingers and into the demon’s small hand.

“There,” Crowley mutters, “Enough for a few powerful miracles. Happy?”

The demon, drawing his hand back, flexes his fingers. He grins, sharp teeth gleaming. “Feels good.”

“Yeah, great. Awesome. Can you do it or not?”

“Oh I can do it. Might need to use up a couple of these demonic miracles to make it happen though.”

“Do the job and there’ll be more where that came from.”

“…probably don’t want to be giving too many of those away. Seeing as it sounds like you’re going to be squaring up with an angel.”

“I don’t pay you to speculate about my business either. Besides, you get me what I need and there won’t be any fighting.”

“Oh there’s always fighting.”

“We’ll see about that,” Crowley says and flicks a hand, “Get going.”

With a wink and a mocking salute, the lesser demon disappears.

Crowley sinks back, collapsing against the wall. Heaving a breath, he drags his fingers through his hair.

It’s a decent plan. Maybe even a good one.

It will work.

It has to.

The alternative is-

Well, the angels will likely have an angel and demon slaying weapon soon - if they don’t already.

The alternative doesn’t really bear thinking about.

Crowley goes home - and if he holds Aziraphale a little tighter when they curl together on Aziraphale’s old mattress, the angel doesn’t mention it.

* * *

Three days later, there is a soft rap upon Crowley’s apartment door.

He’d long ago moved his plants to Aziraphale’s shop. These days the apartment is mostly used for extra storage (not that they really need it) and an extra hide-out in case of emergencies. Recently however, Crowley has been using it as a private space to ready materials for the plan.

Strolling through the bleak, empty halls he closes his eyes, focusing on the presence outside the door.

_A minor demon._

When he yanks it open, the Daeval looks up, his grimy boots shifting nervously over the floor. A dark sack dangles over his bony shoulder.

“You got it?”

The demon nods, and licking his lips, passes Crowley the bag.

It’s not heavy.

Pulling it open, he spares a glance inside.

“That’s it,” he breathes.

Looking up, he holds out a hand.

The demon, flexing his fingers, shifts on his feet. “…Crowley-”

Crowley’s hand curls closed. “What?”

The demon rubs a grimy hand over his face. Shaking his head, he says, “I think - I think Lord Beelzebub is supporting the angels? Somehow? It’s how I know, I mean - I heard talk. It was - um, I think it’s happening. Today.”

With a snap, Crowley is gone.

The bookshop materializes around him. Closing his eyes, Crowley spreads his awareness.

He feels Aziraphale - _there_ , in the back.

_No one else._

Crowley opens his eyes with a shaky breath.

He’s turning a cursory glance around the shop when he sees it.

The card, gold embossed and glittering, is on the floor below the mail slot.

Crowley bends.

A Heavenly summons; on it, is Aziraphale’s name, written in demanding, golden letters.

He thought they might try something like this. Aziraphale would be loathe to ignore a formal summons, Crowley knows. Even after all that’s happened.

_Too forgiving for his own good._

Taking the summons, Crowley tucks it into his blazer.

“Crowley? Is that you?” Aziraphale calls from the back.

“Yeah,” Crowley says “Just had to stop back and grab something. Going now though.”

And then Aziraphale’s head is peering around the corner. “Where did you say you were going, dear?”

When the angel steps into the shop proper, he’s holding an open book in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. His round reading glasses have slipped down his nose.

“Just some errands,” Crowley shrugs, smiling through the bitter taste of the lie. “A few little temptations to keep the world out there properly interesting. Be back before you know it.”

“Please _do_ keep them little. I know it’s not, technically speaking, my job any longer - but I still feel like I ought to bestow a blessing or two to balance it out.”

“Do my best, angel,” Crowley says, and turns, lifting the bag.

“What’s that?”

Crowley shrugs, every muscle in his body straining for nonchalance. “Just some goodies to, you know, help with the tempting. Harmless stuff.”

There is a soft click as the mug is set on Aziraphale’s desk. Crowley hears the book slide beside it.

“…Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice is careful, “What’s wrong?”

Crowley shakes his head, not daring to look over his shoulder.

“Nothing’s wrong, angel”

“You once told me that you’ve never lied - not to me,” Aziraphale halts and takes a breath. “Tell me that’s still true”

Crowley closes his eyes.

“What’s happened Crowley?”

Turning, Crowley sets the bag aside. He’s across the shop in three long strides. When he cups Aziraphale’s face, he feels Aziraphale’s hands sliding up his sides. And when he leans in, pressing their foreheads together, Aziraphale’s hands press over his chest, fingers twisting in the lapels of his blazer.

“Dear, your behavior is doing nothing to assuage my fears.”

“I know,” Crowley says, and bends, dragging an achingly slow kiss over the angel’s lips.

Aziraphale’s grip tightens, and Crowley presses him back.

When Aziraphale bumps against his desk, Crowley stops.

Stroking his thumbs over the angel’s cheeks, Crowley heaves a shuddering breath. And when he says, “Angel, you know I’d do anything for you; extinguish every star in the universe if you asked it of me,” it’s an attempt to convey to Aziraphale, some fraction of his feelings.

Aziraphale’s grip tightens on his coat.

“I’d never ask such a thing of you. I know how you love the stars.”

“I know.”

Crowley presses another slow, careful kiss against the angel’s lips, and as soon as the grip slackens on his blazer - steps back.

Aziraphale reaches out, stepping to follow - and jerks to a halt.

A preternatural stillness settles over the angel as, palm flat, he presses his hand to the invisible barrier between them.

“What is…Crowley-,” Aziraphale says, gaze flicking from Crowley, to the barrier - and then to the rug beneath his feet.

He kicks it back.

The circle had been neatly concealed. Now, the runes glow a deep, blackened red, and undulate, slithering round one another on the wood floor.

Aziraphale kneels, reaching a hand toward the runes. His knuckles bump against the barrier.

“These are…these are in blood,” Aziraphale looks up. He’s pale. “Demon blood. Crowley-”

“Yeah. It’s mine,” he says, and somehow, he didn’t quite imagine this part would _hurt_ so much.

Aziraphale presses a bracing hand against the invisible wall between them, and Crowley can tell he’s realized. Aziraphale is smart. It won’t have taken him long to connect the dots.

“Crowley. Dear,” his voice is soft, forced calm. “Come now. Let me out. Whatever’s come up, we’ll deal with it. Together.”

“They mean to kill you angel.”

Aziraphale’s other hand is pressing against the barrier. “Yes, and if they mean to do that to me, what do you think they intend for you?”

“I’ve got a plan.”

“If it’s a plan that involves leaving me _here_ , it cannot be any good!” Aziraphale says, voice lifting. His eyes are flickering a bright, painful blue. “Let me out, Crowley. Let me out _right now_.”

“Can’t do that,” Crowley says, his throat dry.

The air within the circle has begun to whine. Aziraphale’s hands are pressed against the barrier, pale fingers splayed. He closes his eyes.

Licking his lips, Crowley spares a short glance at the glowing ruins.

_Should hold._

The room trembles. Books topple from shelves and somewhere in the back, a painting slips off the wall.

Through it all, the circle remains.

Spent, Aziraphale sags against the invisible wall. His voice has gone ragged, and he looks up, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Crowley, don’t you _dare_ do this.”

Swallowing around the ache in his throat, Crowley grimaces and turns, reaching for the bag.

“Crowley - Crowley, come now. Darling, _please_.”

Crowley picks up the bag, and says, quiet. “Angels can’t leave the circle. And angels can’t enter. You’ll be safe inside.”

“Crowley-”

“The circle will fade in ten hours - just in case, uh - you know, I’m not back to let you out.”

“ _Crowley._ ”

And here the angel’s voice cracks, and it’s desperate, sharp as shattered glass.

This is a betrayal. That it’s done for the right reasons, doesn’t change the nature of the act. And Crowley can’t bring himself to look at the results of it. The sounds alone have nearly broken him.

Bracing the bag against his shoulder, Crowley stares - _like the worst kind of coward_ \- at the floor. “I _do_ plan on surviving this and returning to you, angel,” he says, and swallows. “If you’ll still have me.”

“ _Crowley_. Crowley,” the angel’s voice is a sharp, painful caress. “Look at me. Please, just stop this _nonsense_ and _look at me_.”

“Sorry Aziraphale,” Crowley’s voice is a rasp.

Fingers clenching around the bag, he wrenches open the door.

He steps into the sunlight.

“ _Crowley-_ ”

Window panes shudder as the door slams at his back.

He hardly needs to think of the place he needs. He thoroughly investigated it over a year ago and has been back several times since. A single blink and his shoes are crunching over arid dirt and sand.

Crowley turns, surveying the shrub dusted desert.

Transporting himself here is a costly miracle, but if Daeval is correct, then there is little time to spare.

The sun sinks low on the horizon, painting the sky in watercolor pastels as Crowley inspects the area.

Satisfied, he nods and opens the black bag. From it, he draws out a small, onyx vase. Dropping the bag, he lifts the vase - and with a twist, removes the stopper.

When the stream of orange, crackling flames burst from the top, Crowley flicks a hand, drawing them round his finger. The fire wraps, slithering like a snake around the skin of his wrist, then up his sleeve. It climbs, flames caressing his skin, over his shoulder and then up his neck. Closing his eyes, Crowley breathes them in.

Just as suddenly as they appeared, they are gone. Or - _not gone_ , exactly. Crowley can feel the Hellfire, a delightful burn in his veins.

The thing about Hellfire is: much in the same way that angels can create holy water, demons _can_ create Hellfire from your average everyday flames. But the act takes nothing short of a Herculean effort. And it’s much harder to do outside of Hell.

So if you happen to be stuck on the earthly plan, the best option by far is to have someone retrieve it for you.

Besides, even a little bit of Hellfire - so long as it’s in the hands of a talented demon, can go a _very_ long way.

Rolling his shoulders, Crowley draws the gold embellished summons from his blazer. He’s begun drawing a roughly circular design in the sand when he remembers.

_Right. Wouldn’t want to forget that._

With a snap and a wave, his form shifts. Black clothes give way to tans and whites. Crowley doesn’t need a mirror to know that his red hair his fading, and white curls are taking its place.

Another costly miracle.

But a crucial one.

Straightening Aziraphale’s jacket, Crowley nods.

“Right then.”

It’s not like he hasn’t performed this bit before.

Brandishing the summons with a flourish, he drops it at the center of the design he’s carved into the sand.

 _Sometimes_ these things can work in reverse. If you just -

He snaps and points.

And - nothing happens.

Grumbling, he toes the dirt, amending the designs. Then, bending, adjusts the summons.

Blowing a breath, he snaps again.

Bright light floods the earthen runes. And then, from the pastel sky, white light filters down to dry desert earth.

Folding his arms behind him, Crowley assumes Aziraphale’s straight-backed posture.

“Hello?” he calls, Aziraphale’s voice loud in the silent desert. “Anyone there?”

He waits a moment before circling the summons. Frowning, he studies the design.

_All good there._

Completing the circle, he stops, hands on his hips.

“Excuse me-”

The circle ignites with a _fwhoomp!_

The Archangel Gabriel steps out from the light.

He’s wearing the same suit jacket, gray and pressed, that he was wearing when Crowley last had the displeasure of encountering him.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, lips curving in a thin, bitter smile. “It’s been a while.”

“Not long enough, I think,” Crowley answers, folding his hands in front of him as he’s seen Aziraphale do thousands of times before.

Gabriel huffs a breath. “No. I suppose not,” and lifting a brow, glances around. “Anyway, why are you here? We were expecting you to come to us.”

“Last time I visited Heaven, you forced me to walk into Hellfire,” Crowley replies, voice clipped.

Gabriel shrugs, tilting his head. “Fair.”

Adjusting his coat, the archangel steps out of the portal. “I thought you’d have your demon buddy with you. As backup, or something.” He glances around as he says it, as if he half expects Crowley to materialize from behind a shrub.

“I left him behind. In a safe place.” Licking his lips, Crowley purposefully hesitates, as if he’s reluctant to add, “I don’t trust you, Gabriel.”

He completes the act by shifting nervously, Aziraphale’s oxfords crunching over dry sand.

“Don’t trust me?” Gabriel says, tilting his head.

“Be honest. Please. Why are you here?”

“To enact divine justice.”

Stomach sick and sinking, Crowley closes his eyes. When he opens them, he holds Gabriel with a long, hard look.

“In this particular case, what does divine justice require?”

“Death,” is Gabriel’s quiet answer.

“Mine?”

“Yours, Aziraphale.”

Crowley shifts. Hellfire sings in his veins.

 _Not yet. Not yet_ , he commands it.

“Is this by God’s order? Or _yours?_ ”

Gabriel shrugs. “Does it matter? I’m an angel. I _work_ for God. My justice is inherently divine.”

“You can’t kill me,” Crowley says, shaking his head.

And then Gabriel is chuckling. “We couldn’t. For quite a while. But things have changed.” Gabriel pulls a long, dark dagger from within his jacket.

The hilt looks to have been originally made of wood, though now it’s blackened and charred. The blade itself is a bright silver, but dark lines of corruption climb up the metal, like infection spreading from a wound.

Crowley watches the dagger as Gabriel passes it into his dominant hand.

“What do you hope to gain from this murder?”

“Not _murder._ My God!” He gapes, openly horrified. “ _Justice_ , Aziraphale. Come on, we’re not animals.”

“Right. Forgot.” Crowley can’t help the sneer.

“Now, how should we do this?”

“Please don’t,” Crowley says, pitching Aziraphale’s voice low.

“You made your choice, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, frowning. “These are the consequences.”

“Mercy,” Crowley whispers, and he hates how it sounds in Aziraphale’s voice. Swallowing, he forces out, “Gabriel, please.”

Gabriel stares, his purple gaze glowing bright enough to match the sky alight in dusk.

And then he’s blinking, grimacing as he shakes his head. “Ugh. Aziraphale. Don’t make me feel _guilty_ about this. You _betrayed_ Heaven. These are the rules.”

He flips the dagger in his hand.

It’s Crowley’s only warning.

White, radiant wings erupt from his back, and Gabriel pivots, his polished shoes sending sand flying as he surges forward, dagger lifted, poised to strike and -

He jerks to a stop.

He’s frozen, mid leap. He struggles to move, tendons bulging in his neck. His wide eyes turn on Crowley, and he bares his white, perfect teeth in an infuriated grimace.

“ _What is this?_ ”

Crowley strolls toward him, Aziraphale’s features and clothes melting away.

“You failed the test, archangel,” Crowley says, taking no satisfaction in the sentence. Stepping around the demon, Crowley shifts a foot, dislodging sand. Dark designs catch the fading light.

They’d activated the second Gabriel stepped over them. When he’d chosen to kill Aziraphale.

“Release me, demon.”

Crowley is shaking his head, “If you’d forgiven him. If you’d just _stopped this_ , I would have let you go.”

Solemn, Crowley unculrs his fingers. Hellfire ignites in his palm.

“Demon. Crowley - _Crowley_. Stay back!” Gabriel’s voice has turned high and panicked.

Crowley doesn’t like this. But he likes the idea of Aziraphale being harmed by Gabriel infinitely less.

He lifts his hand, Hellfire reflecting in his dark gaze. “You have your justice, archangel. I have mine.”

And then Gabriel is stuttering, “Michael! _Michael!_ ”

A flash of blindingly white light illuminates the desert; it’s immediately followed by the cacophonous crash of thunder.

The Archangel Michael stands at Crowley’s back, the ground smoking at her feet. Her hand is half lifted, poised to strike, and -

Frozen.

Her eyes flicker, looking desperately from Gabriel to Crowley as she strains to move.

Crowley _tsks_.

“Oh _come on_ , you really thought I’d only lay one trap? I’ve had _years_ Gabriel. This bloody desert is full of ‘em.”

Gabriel and Michael share a wide-eyed look.

“So you’re welcome to call as many angels as you want. They’ll all get stuck like flies on-”

_Wait, what is it that flies get stuck on?_

Crowley frowns, thinking. Hellfire flickers in his palm.

Gabriel grunts, straining in vain against the trap’s hold. When that doesn’t work, he starts to mutter.

“Hey. _Hey._ _I could use some help here_.”

Crowley turns toward the archangel, and when the Hellfire dances, eager, he soothes it with a breath.

Gabriel is groaning. “Don’t make me _beg_. Come on, you dick.” And then he’s deflating, closing his eyes. “Fine. Fine! _Please help me!_ ”

Michael is watching him with a sharp frown.

Crowley stares, “Who are you talking-”

A cold rumbling breaks the quiet night as dark mist gathers, pouring from beneath the earth.

“Oh _fuck_ me,” Crowley manages, dragging his dark glasses off as the dry sand parts, and a dark-haired demon rises.

Lord Beelzebub sneers, turning a flat, disinterested look over the scene.

When their black gaze falls on Gabriel, they snap, “ _What._ ”

Gabriel’s eyes flick down. He meaningfully lifts his brows.

Beelzebub watches him with a blank stare.

“ _Break the damn trap!_ ”

Crowley snaps a hand around his Hellfire, drawing it back as he rounds on Beelzebub. “Hey. Wait. No. _No_.”

Baring their teeth, Beelzebub snarls when Crowley takes a step too close. He instinctively hops back.

“We are not on the same side, _Crowley_. Not after what you did,” they hiss, and if eyes were capable of murder (There is actually a demon with that ability. Thankfully, it is not Beelzebub.), Crowley would surely be dead.

“Oh and you’re on what, _the angel’s side now?_ ”

“I’m on _Hell’s_ side, you miserable excuse for a demon!”

“Alright. Good. Great,” Crowley says, “Then maybe you can, I don’t know, leave?”

Beelzebub frowns, looking from Crowley, to Michael, and then finally, Gabriel.

“I’ll owe you one?” Gabriel bares his teeth in a weak smile.

Pinching the bridge of their nose, Beelzebub heaves a deep sigh.

Crowley is shaking his head, the sharp burn of adrenaline already flooding his Earthly body. “Shit.”

Beelzebub spares Crowley a long, hard look. “There was a time when I would have mourned you, Crowley,” and then they’re turning, glaring at Gabriel. “You’ll owe me _five._ Asshole.” With a lazy flick, the traps surrounding them go up in smoke.

“Goodbye Crowley,” Beelzebub says without meeting his eyes.

Crowley watches, hands dangling at his sides, as the demon sinks smoothly back into the earth.

Polished leather shoes shift, crunching over dirt.

Crowley stills, tilting his head to observe Gabriel straightening up. The archangel rolls his neck as he adjusts his grip on the dagger.

At Crowley’s back, Michael roughly yanks her jacket into place. When she lifts a hand, a gleaming sword materializes in her open palm.

Crowley shifts so that he can watch them both as his mind furiously works to come up with something - anything to get him out of this _mess_.

 _Damn Beelzebub_ \- _again._

“Well,” Gabriel says, his voice flat. “That was a fun diversion, but I think it’s time we got on with our regularly scheduled programming. Don’t you think, Michael?”

“Yes. I want to leave.”

Gabriel nods, and turns to Crowley, gesturing with the dagger. “After we kill you - and make no mistake, we _will_ kill you for this - we’re going to find Aziraphale and _finish him_. It’s important to me,” Gabriel says holding his gaze, “that you know this. I want you to die with the excruciating awareness of _exactly_ how much you fucked up.”

The book shop is warded. And Aziraphale is still safe within the blood runes. He should be able to escape, even if the archangels are waiting for him. When the seal breaks, Aziraphale will have time enough for a quick miracle to get him far enough away to run.

But the image that follows, of Aziraphale fleeing - with no one and nothing in the wide globe willing - or powerful to help him (not nearly enough remains of Adam’s power to take on an archangel), is almost too painful to consider. And yet it’s impossible for Crowley not to picture those inevitable final moments, in which Aziraphale is eventually tracked down, surrounded by more angels than he can handle. When a dark, corrupted dagger of heaven’s own make is mercilessly driven into his kind, _good_ heart.

Thinking about it makes Crowley _burn._

Faced with Gabriel, and Michael, and the _inconceivable_ notion - the _thought_ of his angel’s destruction at their cruel, merciless hands, the Hellfire coursing through his veins ceases it’s singing.

Instead, it _screams_.

The flame is stirring, climbing, filling him. _Burning_ \- it roars, demanding air, freedom, destruction.

Crowley gives it what it desires.

His dark wings unfurl. Beneath black feathers, hellfire crackles and glows. His wings arc back, and molten sparks erupt from the dark plumage. In the dark desert, they fall like rain.

Crowley can feel the glorious bite of fire - in his fingers, his arms, his mouth and throat. And when he turns to look upon Gabriel, Hellfire’s liquid heat flickers and pours like molten gold from his yellow eyes.

“You wanted justice, archangel?” Crowley spits, flames licking at his throat. When he smiles, they flicker, dancing between sharp, white teeth. “Shall we see if the fires of Hell can wipe the sins from your immortal soul?”

And just like that - the archangels attack.

The bursts of Hellish flame can be seen for miles. And the air on the flat desert screams, rent by the merciless cut of archangels’ wings.

Dagger and sword flash, cruel steel catching and reflecting Hellfire’s impossibly bright flame. Forged in Heavenly flame and cooled in holy water, the weapons were _made_ for carving demon flesh from bone.

Crowley fights. He fights for his life; for Aziraphale’s.

Flanked by archangel’s, he uses every demonic trick he’s ever known.

When he is shoved to the ground, pinned beneath Gabriel’s hard hand and Michael’s boot, both Archangel’s are blackened, and in places, fire has singed through skin. Michael wobbles, the sword dangling loose in her grasp. Her free hand presses against her side. Between her fingers, golden blood spills.

A long score of singed flesh mars Gabriel’s cheek, and he’s lost the use of his scorched right leg.

The archangel’s hand trembles as he shoves Crowley down. And the earth cracks and splinters beneath the demon’s still smoldering wings.

Crowley gasps, and he can feel his ribs cracking beneath the angel’s hand. Hellfire churns within - he can feel it in his mouth and throat, but he can’t draw a breath; his head is spinning. From a wound at the back of his skull, dark blood streams, feeding dry earth. There are cuts along his arms as well, and a particularly deep one in his side that Crowley has decided he’d better not think about for long.

When Gabriel draws the dagger, pressing it’s silver tip to Crowley’s heaving chest, Crowley draws an agonized breath. Fire flickers behind his teeth, licking at his bleeding lips, but he’s spent - can no longer command it.

“Just do it Gabriel,” Michael says, shuddering as she redoubles the pressure on her wound. “I’m fading.”

Crowley stares up at Gabriel - into those unblinking purple eyes. There is a flicker of emotion there. Guilt, maybe. Or perhaps it’s mere annoyance, because Crowley watches Gabriel steel himself; and then the tip of the dagger is piercing skin.

_Agony._

His guttural shout pierces the arid desert air.

The dagger is corrupted, but there’s more than enough holiness left to sear as it digs into Crowley’s flesh.

The Hellfire is burning, _wild_. Crowley feels it expanding, consuming as Gabriel readies to shove the dagger between his ribs.

And as Crowley stares up, flames caressing his lips, he suddenly knows what he must do.

The Hellfire is raging, eager, hungry. It’s a task to control it. Even for a demon.

It’s easy, however, to give in.

The fire expands, growing - consuming. Crowley tilts his head back as flames spill from his lips, his nose, his eyes. Hacking a weak laugh, he bares his teeth at the angels above him.

“Together then,” he says as Hellfire crawls out of his mouth, down the skin of his throat.

He’s completely let go. No longer Crowley. No longer _demon_. But a molten, hungry bomb.

“Gabriel!” Michael commands, “Do it! _Now!_ ”

Gabriel twists the dagger and -

Lighting cracks through the sky. When the screaming bolt strikes earth, white electricity splinters out, carving sizzling pathways through sand.

White, crackling electricity lights the figure in a pale glow.

There, Aziraphale stands, his jacket billowing and hair windblown.

_No._

Crowley looks upon his angel, dread sinking into his battered bones.

_Not here. Let him be anywhere but here._

Especially now, when Hellfire is seconds from razing desert, brush, stone.

Chest heaving, he focuses, straining to draw the Hellfire back. It’s like trying to catch air in his fist. With a ragged gasp he manages to get a hold on it, barely; and the fire is nowhere near subdued.

The noise has Aziraphale turning.

Gabriel’s attention is on Aziraphale. His white knuckles wrap around the ancient blade, it’s holy edge digging half an inch into demon flesh. All he has to do is press.

And Crowley is burning - fading. Nearly overcome.

As Aziraphale twists around, his eyes desperately searching the dark desert, Crowley watches his wide blue gaze look from Gabriel, to the dagger and Crowley’s broken figure beneath, and finally, _finally_ to Crowley’s inflamed eyes. Aziraphale’s chest heaves - and then Crowley is gasping, fire leaking from his battered lips,

“Angel, _fly._ ”

But Aziraphale isn’t flying, or running, or anything of the like.

Aziraphale’s hands have closed into fists; they tremble as he stares, brows lifting, skin creasing between them, as though he can’t quite believe what he is seeing.

Crowley shudders, chest heaving. Dark blood pools around the dagger, trickling down his skin.

“ _Angel_ ,” Crowley begs.

_Run._

_Fly._

_Anything - so long as you go far away from here._

“ _Oh_ ,” Aziraphale’s voice trembles, and the silence that follows is the hollow rush before a wave folds, crashing over sand; it is the cringing anticipation the millisecond before a dropped glass shatters; the heavy eternity after lighting flashes through the heavens, when one holds their breath and waits for thunder.

The angel blinks and looks down at his hand. The flaming sword is there, settled in his open palm.

“ _Now_ , Gabriel,” Michael hisses, shaking. “Do it or I will.”

Crowley can feel Gabriel turn back to him, but Crowley has eyes for Aziraphale only. His angel has begun to glow.

Wind picks up, stirring sand and tearing through shrubs. Aziraphale stands at its center, untouched, as his eyes flicker with terrible brightness.

“You **will not**.”

The voice is Aziraphale’s - and it’s not. It is simultaneously close and distant, and it resonates, expanding to fill the space around them.

Gabriel’s shoulders lift and he stills. He and Michael share a glance.

“We were _warned_ of this,” Michael whispers, wincing as she sinks to a knee. “We were supposed to kill him right away, Gabriel.”

“Principality Aziraphale,” Gabriel calls, his voice low and commanding. “Remember yourself, angel!”

Aziraphale tilts his head. His wings slowly open, but there are more of them than there were before. And from the feathers, eyes blink. They are wide, and terrible, and stare out from _infinite_ depths.

“Stand down, Aziraphale,” Gabriel calls. “Stand down and we will spare your demon.”

From Aziraphale’s eyes, blue light pours. And it’s expanding - filling his mouth, and rising - crackling and bright, it arcs through the air around him.

“ _ **You will spare him because it is right.**_ ”

Gabriel is shaking his head. “You don’t know that!”

“ _ **I know it**_ ,” Aziraphale says in that impossible voice.

He’s marvelous, and Crowley can’t look away.

The wind is howling and Aziraphale stands at its center, unmoved.

“We have to snap him out of this,” Michael says, and summoning strength, lifts her holy sword.

Crowley doesn’t realize she means to cleave his head from body until the flash of metal catches his eye.

The air screams, snapping as it is cut by too many angel wings.

A hand wraps around the blade, catching it before it can fall. From where Aziraphale’s fingers grip the gleaming metal, golden blood collects and drips. Crowley watches it stream down the angel’s arm. Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes - all of them - are focused on Michael, where she stands, straight backed and trembling, before him. His flaming sword is pointed at her chest.

“ _ **Go home Michael**_ ,” Aziraphale commands, terrible and impossible. Reality seems to bend, warping around him. “ ** _Go home, else I be forced to end you where you stand._** ”

Michael shakes her head. She’s staring at him, eyes wide. “You don’t have that power, angel.”

Aziraphale’s fingers release her blade. He stares, almost disinterested, at the golden blood pooling in his palm. His brows draw together, and he speaks slowly, as if trying out the words. “ _ **I think I do.**_ ”

Glowing eyes flick up, and Michael takes a step back. Swallowing, she makes a single, sharp gesture and transports away with a _pop_.

Crowley stares up at Aziraphale, and he’s expending every ounce of his energy holding the Hellfire at bay. Aziraphale is - he’s beautiful and dreadful, and he’s become something powerful, otherworldly. But even with unfiltered, wrathful power radiating from his earthly form, Crowley fears what an explosion of Hellfire would do to Aziraphale at such close range.

The knife is pressing down - perhaps an unconscious action on Gabriel’s part, and Crowley gasps as the searing pain redoubles.

Aziraphale is on the archangel before the sound has fully left Crowley’s throat.

Wings snapping, he shoves Gabriel up and off Crowley.

When Gabriel, re-gripping the dagger, slashes out at Aziraphale, the angel sends the dagger flying with a flick. The blade spins, sinking hilt deep in sand.

Aziraphale stands between Gabriel and Crowley, every one of his glowing eyes glaring with burning brightness at the archangel.

“Okay, what _the fuck_ Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale blinks, and so too do the rest of the eyes.

“ ** _You mean to murder Crowley. And Aziraphale: Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate._** ”

“Third person, _really?_ ”

When Aziraphale steps toward him, Gabriel hops back, and his palms are raised, placating.

“Okay, _no_. Not murder. This was supposed to be _justice_ Aziraphale. You betrayed Heaven!”

Aziraphale hesitates, the crackling energy around him intensifies. His wings shiver.

“ ** _No_** ,” he finally answers, distant. “ _ **It’s not…justice.**_ ”

“And _you_ would know?”

Slowly, Aziraphale looks from Gabriel, then back to Crowley. Golden, ethereal blood drips, like tears from his eyes.

“ _ **Yes. I can hear Her.**_ ”

Gabriel physically staggers.

“No. No. That can’t - No one’s actually heard Her voice. Not since-”

“ _ **I hear Her now, Gabriel.**_ ” Aziraphale says, in that somber, distant tone, as though a part of his mind resides elsewhere. Liquid gold streams over Aziraphale’s jaw and down the curve of his neck.

Crowley has the horrified thought that this might be killing him.

“Aziraphale,” he rasps, hopelessly reaching. “Whatever it is you’re doing - you can stop now, angel. Rest.”

“ ** _Not yet_** ,” Aziraphale says, looking to Gabriel.

When he lifts a hand, the archangel flinches, stepping into a fighting stance.

“ ** _You’re to be confined. Here. On Earth, Archangel Gabriel. Powerless. Like a human_**.”

“ _What?_ ” Gabriel snaps.

“ ** _And here you will remain. Until you learn one very important lesson. The most important of them all._** ”

“What? No. _What?_ ”

“ ** _You, Archangel Gabriel, must learn true, selfless love_.**”

Gabriel gapes. “Oh come on! You can’t honestly expect me to believe-”

Aziraphale lifts a hand. A wide, impassive eye blinks upon his palm. Aziraphale flicks his wrist, and Gabriel is gone.

“ _ **I agree**_ ,” Aziraphale says, answering an unheard voice. “ ** _Los Angeles is a suitable punishment, I think_**.”

A fresh stream of angelic blood rolls down Aziraphale’s neck. This time, from his ears.

Crowley is sweating, unconstrained Hellfire burning him from the inside out. Groaning, he struggles to rise.

“Angel. _Aziraphale_. You’ve got to break the connection, love. Hang up,” Crowley coughs, gasping. “It’s hurting you.”

Aziraphale’s brows draw together and he touches a hand to his neck. He blinks, staring blankly down at the blood.

“ _ **Oh.**_ ”

And he tilts his head, listening.

“ _ **Love? What about it?**_ **I don’t unde** rstand.”

And then the angel is staggering back, the glow around him slowly fading.

When Aziraphale turns, the light in his gaze has dimmed enough for Crowley to once again see his eyes. Gone is the aloof distance. And when Aziraphale looks to Crowley, his emotions flicker, devastatingly open across his face.

“Oh _. Oh - Crowley!_ ”

Aziraphale is dropping beside him, hands fluttering, as if afraid of harming Crowley further with his touch. The extra wings are still there. So are the eyes. And they all watch Crowley, Aziraphale’s agony mirrored in their inhuman stares.

When Aziraphale cradles his face, cool fingers gently brushing his bruised cheeks, Crowley sinks into the touch, closing his eyes.

But the Hellfire is pressing up. Impatient. Eager.

Eyes snapping open, Crowley presses a hand to Aziraphale’s chest.

“Angel,” he says, stiffening in pain. “Angel, you need to leave. Hurry.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice is sharp, afraid. “What’s happening to you?”

“Hellfire,” Crowley manages to gasp.

“But it’s - that - it can’t hurt _you!_ ”

Crowley heaves a deep breath and then another. He can’t seem to get enough air.

“I…did a bad thing angel. Unleashed the monster, if you will. Now…it won’t stand to be leashed again. Hellfire’s tricky that way.”

Aziraphale stares at him, horrified. “What?”

“It wants out. And it’s gonna go through my very being to get there.”

“Crowley. There has to be - I mean, there must be _something_ -”

Crowley, shaking with the effort, grabs a fistful of Aziraphale’s shirt. “Don’t even know _how_ you got here, but you need to leave. _Now_. I am not,” Crowley roughly shakes him, “going to let you burn with me.”

When Aziraphale doesn’t move, Crowley’s chest heaves.

“Angel _please_ -”

“You left me _behind_ ,” Aziraphale hisses, cutting him off. “And now you expect me to leave you. Here? _Like this?_ ” His voice breaks.

Hearing it _hurts_ \- more than Crowley had previously thought possible.

Crowley slowly, agonizingly lifts a shaking hand. Gritting his teeth, he presses it against Aziraphale cheek, still damp with angelic blood.

“ _Angel_. Angel. I’m so sorry.”

Eyes fluttering closed, Aziraphale leans into the touch.

“If - If we could do it over again, I wouldn’t change a thing, not a moment- save admitting my love for you sooner. What I wouldn’t give for more-”.

Aziraphale’s eyes snap open. All of them.

“Love,” Aziraphale breathes.

“Yes?”

And then Aziraphale is shaking his head, “No. It’s _love_. The thing that Gabriel needs to learn. What allowed me to hear the Almighty today. _Love_ , Crowley.”

Crowley is trying to concentrate, he really is - but it’s taking nearly everything to hold the damned Hellfire back. And it’s a fight he’s rapidly losing.

“Aziraphale. Stop. Just listen,” he says, screwing his eyes closed. “You’ve got to go. I’m begging you.”

When Aziraphale’s soft fingers brush his face, Crowley flinches back.

“Angel-”

“We are going to discuss my anger at the dismal way you handled this situation later.”

Crowley swallows around the fire in his throat.

“There is no later, Aziraphale-”

When Aziraphale sets a finger against his lips, Crowley presses them desperately closed.

“Maybe there can be,” Aziraphale murmurs, kneeling over him. “At the very least, I’ve got to try.”

And then Aziraphale’s hands are cradling his jaw, thumbs stroking battered skin. One of his hands shifts back, gently lifting Crowley’s head.

When his fingers touch the wound there, Crowley’s lips part in an involuntary hiss. Molten fire spills down his jaw. Though it passes centimeters from Aziraphale’s skin, the angel doesn’t shift his hand.

Crowley stares at Aziraphale, horrified. “Angel - what’re you-”

Aziraphale’s fingers press beneath Crowley’s jaw, tilting his head up.

Blue eyes glowing impossibly bright, Aziraphale says, “ _I love you. Wholly. Fully. Purely. With all of my being_ ,” and presses his lips to Crowley’s.

Crowley jerks back, white hot panic roaring through him.

Flames are in Crowley’s throat, his mouth, his nose, his eyes.

 _Aziraphale’s flesh will burn._ And then he’ll swallow the flame himself. Be consumed from the inside out.

But Aziraphale has a hand at the back of his head. His other grips Crowley’s jaw, and as Crowley gasps, too weak to shove him back, Aziraphale closes his eyes and deepens the kiss.

Crowley closes his eyes. Cowardly though it may be, he can’t bear to watch.

Aziraphale’s thumb is stroking a fumbling path over his cheek, and as Crowley shudders, Aziraphale kisses him again and again, deeply and unflinchingly.

Gasping, Aziraphale whispers, strained against his lips. _“I love you. I love you with all of my being. I love you and nothing - no part of you - would ever harm me.”_ Another kiss, and he starts the mantra again.

This goes on, and Crowley can’t bear it because he’s waiting for Aziraphale’s voice to hitch, for his angel to begin to tremble as he’s devoured by hungry Hellfire. Crowley is so entirely, soul-consumingly destroyed by the idea of it, that it takes him a long moment to realize his cheeks are no longer hot, but _wet_.

It’s no longer Hellfire, but tears spilling from his eyes.

Blinking wet lashes, Crowley stares.

Before him, Aziraphale kneels. The glow in his blue eyes has faded, both the extra wings and the otherworldly eyes are gone, and the angel’s soft skin, lit by the pale moonlight, is unmarred. Gentle fingers brush the tears from Crowley’s cheeks, and the angel’s lips part in a wobbly smile.

“What - how - angel, _what did you do?_ ” Crowley sits up, and is amazed to find his body only protests with a dull ache. He glances down to see the lacerations in his skin have faded.

“I took the Hellfire.”

“You _what?_ ”

Aziraphale’s eyes flick down, and he presses his lips together. “I love you. More than anything,” he says, glancing up. “You love me too, and I told myself that no part of you - nothing from you, could ever hurt me.”

Crowley is reaching up, cradling Aziraphale’s face in his hands before the angel has even finished speaking. “Simple as that?”

Aziraphale shrugs, pressing his hands over Crowley’s. “Love is the simplest thing there is.”

At that, Crowley’s throat aches, and he feels uncomfortably like he might once again start crying. Dragging the angel closer, he presses his face into his shoulder. “ _M’really glad you’re okay._ ”

Aziraphale’s arms encircle him, and then his hands are clutching at the scorched shirt on Crowley’s back. “ _I’m_ glad you’re okay! Oh, Crowley, when you left and I was alone, there in the shop-”

Squeezing his eyes closed, Crowley draws his arms tighter around Aziraphale. “Angel, I - _forgive me_. I was only trying to-”

“Oh hush. It’s - well I can’t say it’s okay. I’m awfully angry about it still,” Aziraphale says, face pressed into Crowley’s neck. “But let’s discuss it later. Please.”

“Of course, angel. Anything,” Crowley says, leaning back to brush a kiss against his ear, then his jaw and his cheek.

Stroking a hand down Aziraphale’s neck, he wipes at the damp blood.

“Aziraphale - _did you know you could talk to God?_ ”

“Oh no, I had no idea! Though,” he hesitates, “I did do it _once_ , I suppose. It was quite a while back, and I just assumed she occasionally had little chats with everyone.”

“She doesn’t.”

“Yes, well I know that _now_.”

“Well,” Crowley says, using his sleeve to wipe up the last of the blood. “That was a day. You ready to go home?”

“Oh yes please.”

Hand in hand they rise, stumbling to their feet.

“Should we fly?” Crowley asks, looking around at the empty desert. “I could miracle us, but I’ll need a moment to recharge.”

“I’m spent too, actually. I’m not sure I’ve even got the energy to fly, frankly.”

Lifting his wrist, Crowley squints down at his watch. “I think, ehhh - about 15 minutes should do. Until then, care for a moonlight walk?” He nods in a generally Easterly direction. “Home’s that way. Wouldn’t hurt to walk a bit of it.”

Smiling, Aziraphale takes his arm. “A walk sounds lovely.”

As they pass the dagger, Crowley gives it a kick. The blackened hilt skitters across the sand. The blade has disintegrated.

“You do that?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Possibly.”

Crowley nods and they continue on.

The broken, blackened hilt is an inanimate object, and so it cannot think, touch, smell, or hear, and it certainly cannot watch the angel and demon, walking arm-in-arm away from the battle scorched earth. If it could however, this is what it would have observed:

As they walk together, distance making them grow small, Crowley turns a sudden sharp look at the angel. “How _did_ you get out from the circle, by the way?”

“Oh that? Your little demon friend stopped by looking for you. Apparently you owe him some demonic miracles? Anyway, I convinced him to wipe away a few runes.”

“My - wait - _Daeval_ let you out?”

“He’s quite pleasant,” Aziraphale says, as they stroll away, their voices growing all the more quiet.

“He’s a little shit! I told him he was never to come to the bookshop.”

“I’ve already invited him to tea next Tuesday.”

“Angel, _no_.”

“Oh! And you can make those spinach-pastries. The ones I like so much. You will, won’t you?”

A long pause. Somewhere, an owl hoots in the darkness.

“…Fine. Okay, yes.”

“Oh lovely!”

The moon illuminates their figures - one light, the other dark, as they walk, leaning toward one another as if drawn by gravity. And when the one in black turns, replying with hushed words and a contented smile, distance and the sleeping desert at long last swallow their contented voices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I may write an epilogue :)
> 
> Until then, you're welcome to come join me in screaming about Good Omens on tumblr:
> 
> [goodomensblog](https://goodomensblog.tumblr.com/)  
> or  
> [just-quintessentially-me](https://just-quintessentially-me.tumblr.com/) (main)


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